


forget-me-not

by thewayofthetrashcompactor (BriarLily)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Memory Loss, Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Potions, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23442520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BriarLily/pseuds/thewayofthetrashcompactor
Summary: Ben wakes up in a strange woman's bed with no memory of how he got there. But even though he can't remember what he suspects were some very pivotal years, he knows better than to let go of the best thing that's happened to him.-Greenery, witchcraft, and fluff
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 37
Kudos: 188
Collections: Reylo Moodboard Inspiration





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written for Lee as inspired by her lovely moodboard!

Ben wakes up slowly, like he’s dragging himself to wakefulness from the bottom of some deep pit. Light stabs into his already pounding head as he peels his eyes open, and he groans and closes them again. His throat feels as rough as the rest of him. 

“Ben?” a woman’s frantic voice comes from somewhere off to his side, and he makes another attempt at opening his eyes to see who it is. It sounds familiar, but he can’t place it. Far too young and soft to be his mother or any of his various aunts. He can’t think of any women closer to his age that would say his name with that kind of emotion. 

The gentle light still feels remarkably like a blade digging into his skull, but he forces his eyes to stay open until they adjust. The shape of the woman remains fuzzy as she rushes over to him. She blocks some of the light as she leans over him and he sighs in relief. He can’t make out her features, and he still can’t place who she could be. He thinks he should remember if there was a young woman who cared enough to watch over his sleep when he was apparently injured, but besides a nagging sense of indefinable familiarity, he doesn’t have any memory of someone like her. 

The vague shapes of the room around him start to solidify as his eyes adjust to the light, and he realizes he doesn’t remember anything about his surroundings either. Sturdy wood walls make up a good sized room, well-cared for if simpler than he’s accustomed to. A window cut in the wall lets in most of the light, and he can make out the shape of trees outside. At one corner of the window, he thinks he recognizes a rune etched into the wood, likely to keep the room warm and free of rain or other weather. A chest of drawers sits against the wall, simple but well-made.

He turns his head, biting back a groan at the shock of pain that runs up his spine and into his head at the motion. Across from the window, a door stands open, showing him a larger main room with a hearth, a work table with books, bowls, and crystals, and herbs strung from the rafters to dry. The door to the outside is open as well, letting in more light and revealing a clearing ringed by trees. A table by the bedside holds a small bottle with what looks to be a spring of nettle on top of another book with a smaller collection of crystals, most of which he recognizes: black tourmaline for protection, clear and rose quartz for healing and affection, amethyst to bind them together. His host is clearly a witch of some talent. One of his mother’s proteges, perhaps? 

A cool hand lands on his forehead and he starts, turning back towards the woman who now kneels on the other side of the large bed. None of his limbs hang off the mattress, and there’s still room for her next to him, not something he’s used to. The woman frowns down at him, and the urge to smooth away the worry from her beautiful features overwhelms him. She has a sun-kissed look to her skin and freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose. Her brown hair falls around her face as she leans towards him, and he wants to run his hands through it. He still doesn’t know her name, but he doesn’t want her to be upset over him. 

“Ben?” she asks. Her soft voice teases at him, familiar and yet not. She still frowns as her hand smooths over his brow. Her touch sends a wash of soothing energy through him, and he can’t help himself from making a soft noise of protest as she pulls away.

“How do you feel?” she says, and he pauses to consider the question. His entire body aches like he dragged himself through jagged rocks, especially his head, which could’ve been battered by rocks from the inside. His back feels like he’s been resting on something much less comfortable than this bed and his hands feel particularly raw. Besides the head though, it’s bearable. 

“Been worse,” he rasps. From the dry scrape of the words in his throat, he must have been asleep for a while. He tries for a smile, and the woman purses her lips in response, though he sees hints of relief in her features as they ease slightly. 

“I doubt that,” she says, and retrieves a clay cup from the table on her side of the bed. “Can you sit up?”

He does his best, wincing as he puts weight on his hands to push himself up in the bed. She sets the cup down to help him, her hands cool on his arms and back. He wears only a dark tunic, somewhat stained, with a hole on his side, and he feels her touch almost as if it were on his bare skin. He wants more of it, and lets her assist him more than he normally would to get it. She pulls away to fetch the cup again, but then a hand returns to his shoulder as she brings the cup to his lips. He covers her hand with his to drink, taking note of the feel of her, the bumps and calluses of her smaller hand under his. Cool water fills his mouth, and he drains the cup in three quick gulps. She takes it back. 

“Better?” she asks, smiling at him. 

Ben smiles back. “Yes. Thank you.” His voice comes out smoother than before, though still a little out of use. 

“More?” she says, holding out the cup, and he nods. She slips off the bed and walks around it to the door to the main room. She disappears out of his sight for a moment before returning with a full cup that she passes to him. He drinks this one more slowly, watching her over the rim. She seems comfortable around him, settling back on the bed next to him, with no sense of self-consciousness or awkwardness. She wears a soft white dress belted with a brown sash, sturdy and showing some signs of wear, a comfortable outfit for a woman at her ease, not hosting guests. This must be her house, but she seems to know him and accept his presence without any care but to his well-being. He passes the cup back to her with a little left, and she sets it back on the sidetable. 

He swallows, the motion coming easier now. “How long have I been asleep?” he asks her. 

She looks down at the bed. “Two days, once I got you back here,” she admits. “I tried everything, every potion or charm I could think of, but they did nothing. If you hadn’t been breathing, I wouldn’t have known you were alive.” Her chin comes up and she glares at him. “Don’t you ever do that again, Ben Solo!”

His heart aches at the emotion in her voice and face, but still nothing about her clicks into place in his memories. “What happened?” he asks, desperate for the answer. 

Her scowl turns to confusion. “What do you mean? After you collapsed?”

He shakes his head, though the movement doesn’t help the ache still pounding there. “Before that, I can’t remember…” He looks around, feeling like something’s missing. His fingers flex on the sheets. “Where’s my sword?”

The woman’s eyes have gone wide. “You told me when you came for me that you’d had a vision and threw it into the ocean. I gave you your grandfather’s sword for the battle.” She reaches out for his hand, her fingers brushing his. That slight touch inspires a visceral reaction he doesn’t understand but can’t resist. His fingers wrap around hers, holding her tight, as if he thinks she could be torn away from him at any second. Far from being startled by his reaction, the woman seems to understand. Her hand grips his just as tightly, and she looks at him as if searching for something, some recognition in his features. He wishes he had something to give her. 

“Ben?” she asks, a pleading note to her voice. “Don’t you remember?”

He squeezes her hand, not wanting her to pull away even if he doesn’t know why he needs her touch so badly. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice coming out in a whisper. 

The woman’s face drops, though she tries to cover it. “What’s the last thing you remember?” she says, her voice matching his.

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I was training with Luke, I remember Lord Snoke…” He scowls, trying to think past the throbbing in his head. “Bits and pieces. Battles, knights, my sword…” He chances a look at the woman’s face. Her healthy color has faded, leaving her freckles stark against her skin. “I’m sorry,” he says again, wishing he could do better. 

Her pink lips part as she breathes shallowly. “And what about me?” she asks, her voice breaking. 

He doesn’t want to answer. He wants to pretend that this could be his life, that he lives together with this woman in this house and they share this bed. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, like that could make this hurt less. 

“Don’t--” She shakes her head, a few tears escaping and running down her cheeks. “Don’t be sorry. Just tell me.”

“You feel familiar,” he tells her, tugging on her hand, willing her to look at him. “Like a dream I’ve had all my life finally come true. Like the answer to everything I’ve ever needed.” More tears tumble down her face, and she looks into his eyes as if she can see the pieces he’s missing. 

“But you don’t remember me,” she finishes in a hoarse whisper. 

“I want to,” he pleads. “It feels -- just out of reach. I…” He makes an inarticulate noise of frustration. 

She nods, still crying but pretending as if she doesn’t notice. “Darth Sidious,” she starts, and he jolts, not expecting the name. Her lips tighten at the confirmation that he has no memory of what she’s trying to tell him. “We fought our way to him. You fought your knights and we killed all his guards. He knocked you aside, into a pit. I fought him off, used his own power against him, but it drained me. You pulled yourself back and…” She pauses to swallow, her hand squeezing his until he can barely feel his fingers. The still healing wounds on his palms burn in protest, but he could never let go. “You did something that gave your power to me. I was barely conscious, but I remember your essence filling me, bringing me back. We kissed, and then you collapsed. The rest of the Resistance had banded together to defeat Sidious’ army, so I found your horse and your uncle’s old one I borrowed and brought you back here to heal.”

He nods slowly. “If I lost my memories so that you could live, it was worth it,” he tells her, meaning it. 

Her face crumples. “You idiot,” she says, and gives in to her tears. She hunches over, sobbing, and his heart can’t take it. 

He tugs her toward him by her hand still holding his. She doesn’t resist, letting him pull her against his chest and wrap his arms around her. Her tears soak his shirt, hot against his skin. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling her familiar-and-yet-not scent of earth and sunshine and burnt leaves. A few tears slip down his cheeks to disappear into her hair. He curses the Force, the Fates, every mystical power in the universe that let him escape his past and have this woman only to lose everything he built with her. He’s always considered himself cursed, but never more so than now. 

“It’s not fair,” she sobs, words muffled between them. “We _won_. You came back to me.”

“It’s not, I know,” he murmurs into her hair. He might deserve this, but she doesn’t. Anger fills him as much as grief, the desire to tear apart whatever did this to them, but there’s nothing left to fight. All he has is a vague emptiness and a woman crying in his arms. He holds her tight, trying to give her some comfort. Her hands cling to his shirt, nearly tearing the worn fabric. He’d let her rip it off him if it would help. 

Slowly, her sobs ease. He still holds her, unwilling to let go. His mind races for solutions, trying to recall some of his mother’s books he’d studied when he was much younger. Not for the first time, he wishes he’d stayed to apprentice with her rather than his uncle, but he’d been determined to become a knight at that age. 

“It may be that my mind needs time to heal too,” he suggests, though he has nothing but hope to back the idea up. 

She seems to realize that, but latches on anyway. “Maybe,” she agrees, face still pressed to his chest. “I could brew something for memory. I should have some ginseng or ginkgo left, and quartz.”

“I’ll help, anything I can do, I will,” he swears.

She lets out a watery laugh. “You don’t even know who I am,” she protests. 

Ben strokes a hand over her hair and down her back. She relaxes under his touch, and he feels more satisfaction in that than anything else he can remember. Which might not be saying as much as it usually would, given the state of his memory, but he can’t think of any better cause for his life than to make her smile again. “I know enough,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to stop setting posting dates, because I think I curse myself. This got a little longer than expected XD

She lets him hold her for a while longer, even after her breathing has calmed. He wants to pull her back when she finally, slowly, sits up, and he thinks she feels the same. She sighs against his neck before finally releasing him, and her hands linger over his. Eventually, she drags herself from the bed, motivated by the task she’s set herself. 

“There’s still a couple hours of sunlight, I should be able to get something brewing for you to try tonight,” she tells him as she stands. 

“Wait.” He catches her hand before she can leave him entirely. She stops and looks back to him. “I--I can’t remember your name.”

“Oh.” She takes a breath before answering. “Rey. Just Rey.”

The name suits her, he decides, especially as she walks across the room and the sunlight plays over her. He wonders if there was a time when she’d considered joining her name with his. 

Ben pulls back the blankets and finds he still has his trousers, a small mercy at the moment. Getting his legs to move how he wants them to takes longer than he’s used to, but he finally climbs off the bed and follows Rey out to the main room of the small house. Even more plants than he’d seen from the bed crowd the open space: pots on tables sit near another window, and garlands and bags hang tied from the ceiling. Rey walks to a set of tall shelves next to a large work table and pulls out a heavy book, which she opens to a page with delicate drawings of various plants. She consults it, then begins rummaging through the collection of jars and pots on the shelves, pulling out a couple that she also places on the table. 

Walking quietly across the room to join her, Ben watches as she works. He recognizes the herbs she combines and grinds together, though her style is a little more chaotic than he learned. He takes a chair from by the hearth, his legs feeling weaker than he’d like. She glances up at him, then returns to her work. A comfortable silence settles between them: her concentrating on the beginnings of her brew, him drinking in and learning the way she moves. 

After a while, Rey starts to talk. She tells him where she got the rarer herbs she’s using, the journey she took, the people she met. He listens eagerly, unsure whether he used to know this or not, but she seems to have taken the journey alone and doesn’t mind if she’s telling it again. He asks her about some of what she does, and she snorts when he suggests she cut her leaves finer.

“You always say that,” she tells him, part amused, part exasperated. “Even though you never cut them that much when you do it.”

He smiles back at her. “Old habits,” he admits. 

She looks sidelong at him, still chopping. “Do you… remember that? With Leia?”

He nods. “Older things like that are clearer. Everything more recent feels --” He cuts off, frustrated. 

“It’s okay,” she says, reaching out to him. 

He takes her hand and swallows the protest that rises to his lips. They both know it’s not. But if she wants to try to pretend it is, he can do that for her, for now. 

She returns to her knife and he settles back into his chair. “What do you remember? ” she asks. “Do you remember leaving Luke?” She hesitates over his uncle’s name, and he can tell she’s trying to be gentle with him. He wants to prove he’s in better shape than that.

He straightens in his seat. “Yes. All of that,” he says shortly. He remembers very well waking up to find his uncle standing over him, sword bared. He has flashes of memory after that: training with Lord Snoke, the Knights of Ren, battles he can’t place, but nothing more recent. 

She prods more and they untangle the holes in his memory, which become larger as they go on. She keeps assuring him that it’s fine, but he knows that it’s not. Something about talking it through helps though, makes the thick nothingness between him and the missing parts seem less indomitable. He tells her that, and her face lights up.

“Maybe you were right, you just need time to heal,” she says eagerly. She pushes aside a few of the jars on her table and hands him a large rock. “Hold that,” she instructs him. She pours her piles of chopped leaves and ground powders into a few empty vessels, gathers them into her arms, and walks out the door to the outside. He follows her with his crystal. 

In the clearing in front of the house, she’s set up a cauldron over the beginnings of a fire. She sets her burden on the ground nearby and picks up a flint from the base of the stand under the cauldron and starts striking sparks into the tinder. Ben holds his rock and looks around. The sun has started to sink below the trees, letting the last full light of day fill the clearing. Rey, unbelievable contradiction that she is, looks both ethereal and heart-stoppingly real as she stands, flames beginning to catch under the cauldron. In her white dress, her hair falling around her shoulders, he could have lost his way in the woods and come across some benevolent witch, like something out of the stories. But then she looks over at him and smiles, and bittersweet as it is, that smile is for him alone, not some vague wanderer.

He wonders if the man he was, the man she knew, would have gone over and kissed that smile, shared it with her. He wants to. He wants so many things with her, wants to have everything they once were, even if he doesn't understand what that was. He knows it's better than anything he could've hoped for himself. But he also knows that she needs time to figure out what they are. He hopes he can be the man she's searching for every time she looks at him, whether his memories return or not. 

For now, she gestures for him to come closer with a tilt of her head. He obliges. 

"Put that in?" she says, nodding at the crystal in his hands. He places it at the bottom of the cauldron and she nods. "Could you get a few buckets of water?"

"Where--?" he starts, and she winces. 

"There's a well behind the house, buckets should be there too." 

He nods his understanding and walks off. He finds the well and buckets easily and carries two full of water back with him. Rey is sitting on the ground, waiting for the fire to build and the cauldron to warm. She sees him as he emerges from around the corner of the house and her gaze follows him as he sets the water nearby. He's about to go back for more, but Rey pats the ground next to her instead. 

"C'm’ere," she says, and he can't refuse that invitation. He folds himself down to sit next to her, still moving gingerly, but the soft grass feels good on his bruises. They sit quietly, and he listens to the sounds of the forest around them: the crackle as the fire catches in the wood, insects chirping, the calls of birds settling in for the evening. The smell of woodsmoke mixes with that of the grass and dirt underneath him. He may not be able to remember his most recent years, but he doubts anything he's forgotten was as peaceful as this. 

With a sigh, Rey collapses back to the ground behind her. Her arms splay over her head while her legs remain half crossed. She looks at him, then leans up enough for one hand to tug at his sleeve. He falls back to join her. Overheard, strings of clouds stretched into wisps darken as the sun slips lower in the sky. A breeze ruffles the grass and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Rey's tangle of hair brush against her cheeks as she frowns at something he can't see. 

"I don't know what I thought would happen," she says eventually. He turns to look at her more fully, his question in his eyes. She looks over at him and sees it. "After --" She waves a hand. "-- the war. Defeating evil. Restoring the throne. All of that. I wanted things to be better, to keep the people who took me in from getting hurt but I don't think I ever really had the chance to think about what would happen after we did all that."

He considers that. "I'm not sure anyone can see the other side when they're still climbing the mountain."

She snorts. "Ever the philosopher," she says, half exasperation, half affection. 

"Really though," he says, propping himself on an elbow to turn towards her. "You always have to watch for the next step. When the next few are so insurmountable, it only makes sense to be unable to see past those."

Her lips purse as she mulls over his words. "I don't think I ever thought we wouldn't win either. Just that we needed to." She half-smiles as she looks up at him. "After you wouldn't come with me the first time, you were the only thing I didn't feel sure of until the end."

He huffs. "Clearly a mistake on my part."

She shrugs, her shoulders rustling the grass under her. "Obviously. But who knows how things would've gone otherwise."

"I'm sure you wouldn't have predicted this," he says with a self-deprecating smile. 

Her look softens. "Maybe not all of it," she admits. "But parts -- I think the two of us, alone, nothing left hanging over us, was the one thing I did imagine."

His lips part, but he can't think of anything to say. He watches as her gaze dips from his and down to his mouth before flicking up again. Her cheeks tinge pink. He can't help himself from glancing down at her lips too -- as pink as he remembers from his last look. At one time, he knew what those lips tasted like. He finds himself swaying towards her before he knows why. 

The wood pops under the cauldron and Rey pushes herself to her feet. She busies herself adjusting the flames and tests the side of the pot. He thinks it can't be too warm yet, but apparently it's enough for her. She grabs one of the buckets and tips water into the cauldron, then starts sorting through her collection of ingredients and tosses pinches of a few of them in. 

Ben sits up in the grass, heart beating fast. He stays there, not knowing what to do with himself, until Rey's voice jolts him out of his thoughts. 

"Can you hand me the thyme?" she asks. He finds it and passes it to her. She takes a measured pinch and hands it back. 

Afternoon fades into evening like this. Rey works over her potion and he helps her, making trips into the house or to the well as she needs. Rey counts stirs clockwise and counterclockwise and times the addition of each new ingredient. As the last of the light fades from the sky, she straightens and takes a step back. They both watch as the surface of the brew smooths, reflecting back green moonlight. 

"It should sit for a while," Rey says, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "And we should eat. Help me carry it in?"

They both take a side of the half-full pot and awkwardly lug it into the cottage. Ben closes the door behind them as Rey goes about the room lighting candles. When she finishes, she goes to a cupboard and retrieves a trio of wrapped packages which she takes to a smaller table by the hearth. The fire there has been smoldering, and she stokes it back to life and feeds it. He joins her at the table, pulling the chair he'd used earlier back over. She unwraps the packages to reveal bread, cheese, and dried meat. She pulls out a knife and cuts them both slices. She's nearly finished her share by the time he starts his, and he wonders if she fed herself earlier. He suspects she only allows herself what's necessary. He'd like to change that, provide for her everything she deserves. He doubts he had the chance to cook for her before all of this. He likes the thought that the first time he does that for her will be something he hasn't missed. 

He finishes his supper and Rey wanders back over to her work table to start another project. He watches for a bit, but the healing potion she's started is simple enough. He clears their supper and takes a book from her shelves. She glances at him, but makes no protest as he returns with it to his chair. 

He opens the pages, expecting to find one of the standard reference volumes treasured and passed around by witches learning their trade, but instead he finds descriptions handwritten in a rushed but legible script. Beautiful drawings, carefully inked and colored, accompany the descriptions. He flips one page after another, amazed by the detail and breadth of her studies. Her organization is her own and doesn't always follow for him, but he's sure she knows exactly where to find any reference she needs. He traces his fingers over the delicately drawn leaves of a plant with bursts of small blue flowers. 

The evening falls into night, and darkness settles around the cabin, though the flames inside keep it warm and bright. Ben considers himself a night owl, but his body still aches, and he finds his attention slipping from the journal on his lap more and more often. He hadn’t considered it earlier, but now he starts wondering if he’s been sharing Rey’s bed the past couple nights. He hopes she hasn’t been making herself uncomfortable to take care of him. With a blanket, he could sleep just as well on the floor. Maybe not just as well, but he would anyway. 

Rey must notice his head drifting lower as he reads and how he shakes himself to stay awake, because she sets aside her work and walks over to him. She brushes her hand over his cheek to comb through his hair. 

“You should get back to bed, I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” she says, and he hears the guilt in her voice. He brings his hand up to cover hers. 

“It’s fine,” he tries, but she cuts him off with a brief shake of her head. 

“We should both get some sleep,” she says. “Brew first though.”

Her hand regretfully leaves him as she steps away to grab a cup, which she takes over to the pot by the door. She dips it in and fills it, then looks critically at the contents. She sniffs it and nods. She walks back and hands the cup to him. 

“Bottoms up,” she says, trying not to sound as nervous as she looks over the potential results of her brewing. He knows what she’s given him is no miracle cure. With the best of luck, the haze covering his missing memories will thin, and they’ll come back to him over the days to come, and even that is no guarantee. He may just have exceptionally strong memories of these next couple days, or the potion could have some other unintended consequences. The mind is a complicated problem, even for witches. 

He trusts Rey though, so he tips the cup back and drinks it in several quick swallows. It tastes something like licking a tree, and he runs his tongue over his mouth to try to ease the bitterness. Rey watches him, one hand clenched around the other. “Okay?” she asks, voice a little higher than usual.

“Definitely not poison,” he says, and she rolls her eyes and lightly hits his shoulder for the attempted joke. 

“If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t bother with poison,” she tells him, taking the cup back. The joke comes naturally, but something like regret passes over her face once she says it. 

“I believe that,” he says with a laugh, and her expression does that same sort of wince. He stands, stretching out limbs he didn’t realize had grown stiff while he sat. 

"If you want to go ahead and wash up, I'll finish this here and then follow you," she says and turns back to her work table. Heart pounding, he does as she suggests. 

Once he's clean, he gives her another glance. She appears to be putting away her ingredients and doesn't look at him, so with a deep breath, he retreats to the bedroom. Once there, he can't bring himself to lay back down in her bed, knowing now that it's hers. Instead, he sits awkwardly at the end.

Thankfully, Rey doesn't linger in the main room much longer. He hears water splashing as she cleans herself, then the warm light spilling from the main room fades as she blows out the candles, and she follows him as promised. 

She pauses on seeing him. "Oh," she says, standing in the doorway, one last candle in hand, then goes over to the chest of drawers. She pulls one open, then another, finally emerging with a large white bundle of cloth. 

"I don't have much for you," she says apologetically. "We should probably go to town to buy some things, I'm not much for weaving. This might do for now though?" She hands him the bundle of cloth. 

He shakes it out to reveal a long white tunic, large enough to be a baggy smock on her, but likely to be tight on him. With another glance at her, he pulls off the black shirt he's been wearing. 

"Oh!" He shakes his hair out of his eyes to see her watching him, eyes wide but not upset. Apparently he'd misjudged; her reaction suggests they haven't reached the point of casually disrobing before each other before. Flushing, he discards the black shirt and grabs the one she'd given him. He pulls it over his head, wriggling to get it down over his chest. He stands to pull it the rest of the way down. It comes low enough on his thighs that he decides he can slip his trousers off underneath, so he tugs them off and sets them aside. 

When he looks back at Rey, she still watches him. She doesn’t look like he’s offended her though. Her gaze feels intense and -- he can’t explain why, but doesn’t know how else to say it -- interested. He feels her eyes travel along his body, across his chest, down past his hips, to where the shirt cuts across his thighs. He's not used to having so little between him and another person, but he resists the urge to jump into the bed and cover himself with the blankets. He likes the way she looks at him. 

He clears his throat. "Is this… okay?"

"What?" Her eyes drag back up to his, and pink touches her cheeks. "Oh, yes, of course, very okay. You're -- comfortable?"

He rolls his shoulders. The tunic is tight, as he'd expected, but not enough to keep him from moving. "Yes, thank you."

She nods and gathers her own bedclothes. Her gaze flicks back to him, then she slips out of her dress to the shift underneath. She's angled so he sees her in profile, and the sight almost takes his breath away. Her dress wasn't heavy, but the shift below is thin and worn enough that he can see the tan of her skin through the fabric. He drinks in the lines of her strong body, barely obscured, from the gentle curve of her hips to the swell of her breasts pushing against the fabric, the peaks of her nipples outlined. Her hands grip her shift to pull it off, and he has to look away, heat flooding his face. He sits on the edge of the bed with his back to her, his heart pounding. Has he seen her fully nude before? He can't imagine forgetting that, though he's lost so much. He listens to the rustle of fabric as she replaces her shift with a clean one and tries not to think too hard about what she looks like without it. 

Dressed in that thin layer, Rey walks to the dresser, sets their clothes from the day aside, and blows out the candle. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark, then the light of the moon through the window shows Rey coming back to the bed and slipping under the covers. He mimics her, making sure to keep to his half of the bed, though he'd very much like to hold her to him, to fall asleep in her arms. 

They lay there in the darkness, neither daring to move and bridge the gap between them until Rey speaks. 

"Ben?" Her voice comes softly through the night. 

He turns slightly back towards her. "Mm?" 

Another beat of silence passes before she responds. "Would you kiss me?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, can't, all thought knocked out of him, and it's enough for Rey's thoughts to race to their own conclusions. "You don't have to, I don't mean to discomfort you, it's just after--"

Ben rolls over on the bed and drags Rey into his arms. He barely has time to worry that he's gone too far before she wraps her arms around him, letting him know she has no intention of letting him go. He holds her with one arm under her shoulders, the other tight over her hips, her legs draped across his lap. He stares down at her moonlit face, under the grip of some resonance he doesn't understand. 

"Ben," she pleads, voice rough with emotion. She sits up on his lap, bringing their faces even closer.

He doesn't make her wait any longer. He brings his lips down on hers, and energy floods through them both. He gasps into the kiss, and from the way Rey grips him, he knows she feels it too. She cups his cheek, fingers threading into his hair as their lips move against each other. His hand comes up to caress her face in return. He can't help the way his mouth opens to her, desperate for her taste, and she responds in kind. They sink into each other, joy and wonder flowing between them. He thinks he can feel the beat of her heart where her chest presses against his. Her skin starts cool, but quickly warms under his touch.

When they finally pull back, they don't go far, staring into each other's eyes. 

"Ben?" she asks. His name holds years of meaning on her lips. 

"I'm here," he swears. He will be, as best he can. Everything she's done since the moment he woke up this morning proves she'll do the same for him. 

She nods, their noses brushing as she does. They slowly fall back to the bed, still tangled in each other. They don't say anything more, though they exchange small touches, reassuring themselves that the other's there. He stays awake as long as he can, but eventually they fall asleep, never moving apart.

Ben wakes up to the sun pouring in the window. His eyes flutter open, taking in the pink post-dawn glow, and he closes them again with a groan. Too early. He tightens his arms around the woman sharing the bed with him, about to settle back to sleep.

His eyes fly back open and he looks down at the woman. She slowly stirs, blinking as she wakes. She feels warm and right in his arms. 

"Rey," he says. His voice is rough from sleep, but her name comes easily.

She looks up at him and smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed <3 Comments always appreciated!
> 
> You can also find me on [pillowfort as thelastjedi](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/906830), [tumblr as thewayofthetrashcompactor](https://thewayofthetrashcompactor.tumblr.com/post/188963992628/read-on-ao3-finally-posted-the-last-chapter-of-my), and [twitter as briartrash](https://twitter.com/briartrash/status/1193685084697743360?s=20)

**Author's Note:**

> Second part to come later today! Comments always appreciated.
> 
> You can also find me on [pillowfort as thelastjedi](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/906830), [tumblr as thewayofthetrashcompactor](https://thewayofthetrashcompactor.tumblr.com/post/188963992628/read-on-ao3-finally-posted-the-last-chapter-of-my), and [twitter as briartrash](https://twitter.com/briartrash/status/1193685084697743360?s=20)


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